


To the Victors

by Adaire (AlaeFatorum)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crimson Flower, Crimson Flower Spoilers, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), depictions of war, it's ferdinand's birthday and hubert will make time for him no matter what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlaeFatorum/pseuds/Adaire
Summary: The War of the Crimson Flower ends on the 30th of the Great Tree Moon in Imperial Year 1186. It is also Ferdinand von Aegir's birthday. There is little time to celebrate.Alternatively: Ferdinand wonders just how history will remember this day, and he wonders how that memory will differ from his own.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 28
Kudos: 281





	To the Victors

By all future accounts in the history books, the War of the Crimson Flower had been won following the Adrestian Empire’s decisive victories at the Tailtean Plains and in Fhirdiad with the slaying of the former Saint Seiros—known at the time as Lady Rhea. With a kingless and defeated Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, history would thus remember the reunification of Fódlan and the deconstruction of the Church of Seiros that had come to pass. History would hopefully remember an era of peace that had followed for Fódlan, its citizens now free from a system of nobility and crests and a cruel religion that had stifled them for centuries. The war was necessary, they would write, because of all the good that had come from it.

History would not remember, Ferdinand feared, just how horrifying it had been to see Fhirdiad burn.

Never in even his darkest imaginations could he have imagined the way that the Faerghan civilians had fled their homes into the arms of the Imperial Army as the fires had begun to spread through the streets. The flames lapped at the wood of homes, shops, schools, clinics, everything, burning with the intention of leaving nothing but ash on the city’s cobblestones. They had never been foolish enough to expect Faerghus’ army—and certainly not Rhea’s forces—to surrender, of course, but this was something else entirely. Ferdinand could not help but wonder what the noble—if misguided—King Dimitri would have thought at the sight of the people he had given everything to protect burning in the streets at the hands of someone he had called an ally.

Ferdinand found that his heart ached—as it increasingly had as their war effort had gained more and more traction over the past months—for those caught in the crossfire. It was what made it easy to ignore every instinct in his body advocating for survival and to, instead, charge forward into the flames, following the lead of Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg alongside the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force. It was not even a question—they had to finish this.

There had been little choice but to leave his faithful warhorse, Lavinia, behind alongside Hubert and Bernadetta’s steeds. Though it would be difficult to locate any horse that was better-trained and more loyal, Ferdinand knew the only thing that would be accomplished on horseback within the city walls was Lavinia bucking him from the saddle into the waiting fires as they both burned, and he could not bear the thought of losing another horse in this war so near to the end.

No, there had been little choice but to conduct their assault on foot. He and Hubert had been in agreement.

This would be remembered, too, he thought. Historians of war and strategy would praise the quick-thinking of Hubert von Vestra and Byleth Eisner, two tacticians so unmatched that they could adapt a plan of attack—that had required months of careful planning—on the fly. They would marvel at their response to a newfound lack of an entire cavalry in conjunction with the inability to fit even half of their troops into the burning streets. It would be admired how they had fought so seamlessly with Edelgard at the helm. How they had won in spite of the odds and suffered a shockingly low number of casualties.

Ferdinand had done his part, to be sure. His lance had been bloodied many times over, nearly dulling even before the creature that was Saint Seiros had breathed her last.

What had come next, however, had been the hardest.

Ferdinand’s next several hours were consumed by the search, rescue, and evacuation of every Kingdom citizen he could find, coordinating with as many other troops as were willing to help. He had been injured during the fighting, he had dully remembered at some point, having taken a javelin from one of those hulking golems to his shoulder. They were magical in nature, infused with a light that felt more like lightning when it had torn through his armor and made contact with his skin—but as much as it had hurt, it had been worth it. It had not killed him, at least, and it was better that it was Ferdinand than the dark mage he’d been protecting. It spoke to the seriousness of the battle that Hubert had not even taken the time to scold him; he had merely used the best healing spell he knew, and they had moved on.

No one had ever claimed Hubert had a talent for faith magic, however. It had done what was necessary, but Ferdinand’s arm still stung as he pushed through the city. He did not have the time now to consider it, either—every second wasted could be another innocent dead, and the adrenaline still running through his veins was more than enough to keep him upright as he searched for anyone to save.

The rain that had followed their battle had helped to disperse some of the flames as he’d poured through house after house. It soaked into his hair and his armor and his clothes; it washed away the embers that had burned into his skin and some of the bloodstains that had dried on his face. He hoped that it obscured the tear tracks that stained his cheeks whenever he arrived too late.

There came a point where his body could spare no more tears, but he did not give up his search. He found many still breathing among the rubble, and he helped them out of the city where refugee camps were already being constructed from any surplus and donated tents they had been able to collect (and Ferdinand knew that many of his own battalion had offered their tents along with him, which gave him the smallest amount of pride).

Many of the Faerghans he helped spared him no thanks, but he was hardly bothered. They had been the invaders, after all. No matter what the Church had done, there was no denying that it was done out of desperation. Had the Adrestian army not marched, Fhirdiad would not have burned.

All Ferdinand hoped was that some of them understood that none of them had wanted this. Ferdinand himself had never wanted to conquer—only to help. All he could cling to now, carefully stepping over what he prayed were not more charred corpses, was that this would be worth it. It had to be.

He had complained of the Faerghan chill at Tailtean—the air seemed constantly cold in spite of the onset of spring. The rain that had turned the battlefield into a muddy hellscape had only exacerbated the issue at the time, and it had left his troops shivering in their tents on into the morning. Now, however, the air was hot—unbearably so. It clung to him, sticking his clothes and armor to his skin. It made him wonder if he were going to melt entirely, and it had given him another reason to alter his opinion on the Faerghus rains.

Ferdinand continued his efforts until the sun had long since passed, replaced by what was—thankfully—a nearly-full moon as the clouds had dispersed following the rain. He was grateful, too, that no one had tried to stop his excursions as of yet. No one had tried to redirect him, demanded post-battle reports from him, insisted that he get some rest, or expected him celebrate the war’s end with his troops.

There would be time for that later.

He had been out with Linhardt, this time—they both knew that anyone they found now would need more help than Ferdinand could provide, and Linhardt had (rather selflessly, Ferdinand thought, because he was certainly just as overworked and exhausted as the rest of the Black Eagles) left the treatment of their wounded soldiers to the other healers.

Linhardt had not, Ferdinand imagined, planned on digging Ferdinand out of a pile of rubble when they had ventured back into the city together. It hadn’t been his intention for the flimsy, burned, hollowed-out roof to finally give out beneath the weight of the rainwater and nearly crush him to death, but Ferdinand was grateful Linhardt had cared enough to dig him out. It had come at a price, though—this was the final straw for the healer, who had proclaimed this to be the end of their mission shortly after Ferdinand had been excavated. It was too dark to continue searching effectively, he had said, and both of them needed to recuperate. They could continue this in the morning. There had been another, snider comment regarding Ferdinand’s propensity for near-death encounters, but it was brushed off easily-enough.

Ferdinand had agreed, albeit reluctantly. He was not in a position to argue, and even his so-described “boundless energy” was beginning to run dry.

That was how Ferdinand von Aegir had found himself wandering back into the temporary base camp of the Imperial Army—the war now won—covered in blood, sweat, scorch-marks, dirt, dust, ash, rainwater, and tears. By the time he arrived, the skies had cleared.

He decided quickly he did not have the energy to converse with his troops tonight—his extemporaneous victory speech could wait until morning, surely. He did wonder how the other Black Eagles were doing. How Edelgard was handling her victory. What Hubert was no doubt already planning for them to do next.

Ferdinand wished to speak with them, but he was not certain he could say anything of substance right now. And he would hardly have any means for brushing off anyone else that attempted to chat with him along the way.

Perhaps it was for the best if he refrained, then. So instead, Ferdinand found himself approaching the Strike Force’s makeshift stables—a collection of particularly sturdy trees to which they had tied their warhorses in a last-minute change-of-plan before charging into a burning city faced with a distinct chance of death. There was a lack of torches placed this far from the camp itself, and he found himself relying on the moonlight.

There was no better-behaved horse in the entire Imperial Army than Lavinia, and Ferdinand made sure she knew it. She was clearly happy to see him, nuzzling her face into his shoulder, and Ferdinand could not say he didn’t feel the same. Tugging at gauntlets he hoped would not be needed again any time soon, he tossed them haphazardly to the ground before beginning to work at the clasps on his breastplate. He hoped he could begin to breathe again after its removal.

After the warped metal had fallen to the grass with a satisfying thud, Ferdinand reached out to Lavinia, running a hand through her mane, her hair not a completely dissimilar color to Ferdinand’s own, and still in the process of drying from the rain.

“Easy, easy,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers.

“It’s over now. Can you believe it? You can finally rest easy,” he said, a small smile sneaking onto his face for the first time that day. “I can get you that nice big pasture we’ve always talked about, now, you know. You’ve more than earned it.”

He pulled back with another pat to her neck before leaning down to sift through one of the saddlebags he had discarded earlier that day. His hands settled on the pair of carrots he’d painstakingly sought out just for this occasion, and he gingerly proffered one to the bravest horse he’d ever known. The look in her eye told him she would have charged into the flames of Fhirdiad with him, if he had only asked. She would be more than satisfied, however, with simply munching away at a carrot, instead.

“There’s a good girl,” he murmured, giving her another pat. Lavinia had barely finished her own carrot before Ferdinand felt another nose nudging at his shoulder.

“Yes, yes,” he laughed, the sound genuine. “I have one for you, too, Coffee Bean. I know how stingy Hubert is with treats.”

Coffee Bean was not, in fact, the horse’s “proper” name—in accordance with Hubert von Vestra’s flair for the dramatic, her true name was Vesper, which, for all Ferdinand’s mocking, did at least suit her dark coat. For the first few weeks that Hubert had trained with her—after Ferdinand had specially selected her for him—he had staunchly refused to name her, seeing himself as “above” it, or some such nonsense. Ferdinand could not let such an injustice stand—after all, it was crucial for Hubert to bond with the creature that was ultimately meant to help keep him safe. He had devised something of a scheme, then, and had begun to refer to her affectionately as Coffee Bean. It had produced the intended result, and had been more than effective at encouraging the Emperor’s Shadow to name his steed properly.

Ferdinand had felt more pride, however, when he had stumbled upon Hubert in the stables one evening when he’d thought he was alone, stroking her mane and sweetly calling her Coffee Bean.

Exhaustion finally seemed to settle over him, the longer he stood with the horses in what had somehow become a calm evening. It felt like the first time in weeks that his body had wanted to give in and rest rather try to keep him up through the night. He stumbled backwards slightly, allowing his back to press against the nearby tree before he sank down into the soft, only mildly damp grass. His breaths came out in shaky waves as the reality of what they had done finally, finally settled over him. Five years’ worth of fighting. Five years and it was finally over.

And to think, he’d survived a five-year-long war only to nearly be crushed beneath a pile of rubble. He laughed under his breath, running a hand through his dirty, matted hair. Dorothea would surely scold him if she found him in such a state.

With the onset of exhaustion, it was now time for his body to remember how much he ached. He began to notice the scattering of stinging burns on his face, the soreness in every muscle, the rawness in his throat and the burning in his lungs from yelling orders while inhaling smoke. He suspected his eyes were bloodshot and inflamed, and he was becoming increasingly aware of what remained of the injury to his left shoulder and arm where the javelin of light had pierced him.

He would see to it when he turned in for the night, he supposed—clearly it was no longer particularly life-threatening, and the healers would be far too busy for something so superficial.

“I thought I might find you here,” came a voice from his right, low and measured and smooth even though Ferdinand was certain his throat burned just as much as Ferdinand’s own.

“Good evening, Hubert,” Ferdinand offered, though his own voice came out as little more than a pitiful croak. He craned his neck up to look at the man, his wiry figure framed by the moon behind him. While certainly a far cry from his typical proper self, Hubert looked far more put-together than Ferdinand imagined himself to be.

He could not make it out entirely in the darkness, but Hubert seemed to be holding something.

“Vesper has been behaving, I presume?” Hubert asserted.

“Of course. She is wonderful company.” His voice was not improving at all with use, but there was no one else he would rather talk to right now.

“Good. She has always liked you more than me, anyway.”

“That is not true! You simply need to lavish her with the attention she deserves. And more snacks.”

“Spoken like a true von Aegir.”

Ferdinand resisted the urge to stick his tongue out, deeming the action far too immature. Instead, he let silence fall between them. It was almost unusual, honestly—Ferdinand typically had more to say.

“So that’s it, then?” Ferdinand said after a moment. “We did it.”

“We did.” Hubert’s gaze was fixed somewhere on the horizon.

“… How is Edelgard?”

Hubert took a moment to compose his response. “Somewhat shellshocked, I think. She has been dreaming of this for a very long time.”

“I… can imagine.” Even now, Ferdinand was still not privy to the innermost plans of Edelgard and her loyal retainer. He wondered if that could change, now, as they moved forward into her new world. “Should you not be with her, celebrating?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I am not her dearest friend, Hubert.”

There was another moment before Hubert seemed to settle on the right words. Something was bothering him, but Ferdinand was far too tired to place what it could be. “She and Byleth are enjoying each other’s company, I should think. Apparently our dear Professor nearly died, so I thought it would be rude to intrude.”

“You have earned your place at the Emperor’s side more than any of us, Hubert.”

He snorted. “Still, my point stands.” And then, “Besides, perhaps I wanted to seek you out.”

“Me?” Ferdinand asked, his tone betraying his curiosity—he had little brainpower remaining to devote to their typical game of cat and mouse. “Whatever for?”

It was true that they had grown to understand each other over the course of the war, and over the past few months, especially. Ferdinand considered Hubert a dear friend—perhaps his dearest. It would have been a blatant lie to say he did not crave the attention that Hubert paid to him now, but it was hardly the sort of thing he would ever admit to, either.

“You have hardly stood still since we set foot in Faerghus. Your efforts deserve to be commended.”

Ferdinand felt an indescribable flush rise to his cheeks, and, combined with the mess that was his hair and his clothes, he could hardly imagine what a sight he would have been. Utterly atrocious, probably. He took a moment to be grateful that it was dark.

“A compliment, Hubert? I thought you agreed to commit such things to writing.”

“I thought I could perhaps make an exception for today. I am more than happy to balance it out, however, if you would like. Linhardt informed me of what happened in the city—with no small amount of complaining that his arms were now very sore.”

“I… do not think any additional chastising will be necessary,” he admitted. “Though I do, as always, admire your dedication.”

“Now who is the one handing out compliments?”

“Oh, hush.”

Hubert took the quiet moment as an excuse to join Ferdinand on the ground. For a moment, his hands produced a soft, orange glow, illuminating the object in his hands.

He offered Ferdinand the now-warm teacup.

Ferdinand felt his brow furrow. “And what is the occasion for this?” A victory drink, perhaps.

“As I said, you deserve to be commended.”

Ferdinand took the tea and carefully brought it to his lips. It was nothing fancy, given how far into formerly enemy territory they were, and it was not brewed entirely correctly, but it was perhaps the most delicious cup of tea he had tasted in all his days. It soothed his war-torn throat, if only a little.

Despite his attempt at gentleness and his deep gratitude for the drink, his hands shook. He tried to school them as he watched Hubert over the rim of the cup, curious if he would say anything else.

“And. Well,” Hubert began, clearing his throat. “Happy birthday, Ferdinand.”

“Oh,” was all he thought to say. His birthday? “… I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

Ferdinand had barely had the time to even remember to eat over the past week, much less keep track of the date. Hubert had remembered, though. Of course he had.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a better gift. It rather snuck up on me,” Hubert admitted.

For his part, Ferdinand had gifted Hubert a set of riding boots for his birthday two weeks prior, just in time for their coming march. They’d been custom ordered from Enbarr far in advance, made of black leather and containing enough space to reliably store a knife or two without sacrificing any comfort or stability. A practical gift for a practical man—he thought he’d done quite well, and he was glad to see Hubert wearing them now.

“Please do not tell me that you felt the need to apologize about my birthday scant hours after we have just ended a war—” Ferdinand began.

“You got me a gift. I thought it only fair to—”

“Hubert, even I did not know what today was!”

Ferdinand was not upset—the opposite, actually. He rather felt like his head was spinning in the wake of Hubert’s kindness. Could there have been any better gift than to simply experience this moment, alive and victorious, sipping from a teacup surrounded by his horses and sitting next to a man he treasured as a friend? “And it is gift enough to still be breathing,” he continued. “Truly."

“It does not feel like enough.”

“It is more than enough. Unless you have something else in mind?"

Quiet fell over them once again as Ferdinand simply sipped his tea. The cup was nearly empty.

Hubert finally spoke again after the longest pause between them yet, and his voice lacked its typical confidence. “There is… One thing that comes to mind, though I doubt you would approve.”

“I highly doubt that,” he said, arching an eyebrow and setting the now-empty cup down in the grass. “But now you have made me curious.”

He watched as Hubert chewed on his lip, his visible eye gazing aimlessly into the distance as he contemplated doing… whatever it was he was considering.

And then several things happened at once.

Hubert von Vestra, tested assassin, spymaster, mage, and tactician—someone the history books would no doubt come to recognize, to remember, to respect—turned to face him. He reached out with gloved hands, somehow immaculately clean, held either side of Ferdinand’s face, and tugged him forward before pressing his lips to Ferdinand’s forehead in what was unmistakably, irresistibly, a kiss. Hubert’s lips were cracked, doubtlessly covered in dust and soot and ash like his own, but Ferdinand had never cared about anything less in all his life.

Hubert pulled back far too quickly, his eyes flitting away nervously. He cleared his throat again, as if he were expecting to somehow brush this display of affection off as nothing—a result of the exhaustion, perhaps, or simply a reflection of the day’s tangled emotions. As if he expected Ferdinand to be displeased. As if he expected him to be cruel.

For a few scant seconds, Ferdinand simply stared at him, all of the breath taken from his battered lungs. He did not deliver whatever reprimand Hubert may have been expecting. Such a thing could not have been further from how he was feeling.

Instead, Ferdinand put his hands on either side of Hubert’s face, tugged him forward, and pressed their lips together. Hubert gasped against him, eyes wide.

The evidence that he had been caught off-guard was visible for only a second before he relaxed, eyelids fluttering shut.

They remained that way for longer this time, until Ferdinand’s eyes and lungs and heart burned from more than simple smoke inhalation. His injuries seemed far away as they kissed under the stars, survivors of a conflict that they could both only hope would bring about a better tomorrow.

Whereas Ferdinand had shifted his grip to hold onto Hubert’s sweat-soaked collar, Hubert had instead moved to grab a fistful of Ferdinand’s hair (though he was sure it completely lacked any of its typical softness). After they parted, they remained impossibly close to one another.

“I’m sorry,” Ferdinand whispered. “I am sure I look awful.”

It was all he could think to say; addressing his emotions now would have been impossible. There was no eloquent way for him to say that he had imagined this moment many times, in many ways, and that none of them had been this. None of them could have even come close.

“Mm,” Hubert said, somewhere between an affirmation and a denial. “You taste much worse.” A spark of laughter followed his own words, and his eyes came up to meet Ferdinand’s as the fringe covering his right eye was brushed away, allowing their foreheads to rest together. It sounded wholly unlike the maniacal chuckles Hubert was partial to, and it lacked any kind of bitterness.

It was a sound Ferdinand had grown increasingly fond of ever since that deceivingly simple exchange of tea and coffee. It was a sound he found himself chasing in their quiet moments over a tea table, in the moments where Hubert allowed himself to forget, ever so briefly, his duties to the Empire. The moments where he was not concerned with receiving the next spy report, the next battle plan, the next list of casualties, and instead allowed himself to laugh about little things, such as the letter of apology Bernadetta had left a plant in the greenhouse she had mistakenly overwatered, the training dummy that Caspar had mistaken for a loose bear (and the subsequent real bear that Petra had dragged back to the monastery to ensure that he knew what they looked like). It was a version of Hubert who allowed himself to acquiesce that yes, some types of tea were, in fact, drinkable, to gossip about how terrible the Minister of Education’s shoes had been at the New Year’s Ball, to faithfully braid Edelgard’s hair every morning to her liking, to pin an embroidered flower to his coat and agree to run through some of Dorothea’s opera lines so she did not fall out of practice.

And so Ferdinand could not help but laugh at this, too. They could discuss whatever this was meant to be at a later date. For now, one perfect kiss was more than enough. Although...

“… What I would not give for a proper bath,” Ferdinand admitted after a long moment. He was beginning to feel the sheer extent of the grime he was covered in.

Hubert pulled back painfully farther then, studying him. “Your injuries should be taken care of, first—I know I did a rather poor job of healing your arm in the moment. As for a bath,” he paused, pursing his lips. “… I will see what I can do.”

“I hardly wish to burden you, Hubert. I know even you must be tired.”

“It is not a burden. Consider it a continuation of your present, if you must.”

Personally, Ferdinand had felt that no other birthday gift could possibly rival this.

Hubert moved to pick up the discarded teacup before he rose from his place on the ground, offering a hand that Ferdinand graciously accepted. “Besides, as I recall, someone gave away their only tent.”

“Found out by the Emperor’s own spymaster, I see,” Ferdinand said, his words rather sheepish as he forced his legs to stand. He had nearly forgotten. “Very well, I shall graciously accept. But only because it is my birthday.”

Ferdinand did not know how history would regard him in the end—if it regarded him at all. He knew, however, that it would remember this day for the good that was done, if not for the bad. It would regard Edelgard for her bravery and peerless leadership, Linhardt for his careful perseverance, Caspar for his unconquerable tenacity. Dorothea would be renowned for her boundless compassion, no doubt, and Petra for her striking fearlessness. Bernadetta, he was certain, would be known for conquering her many fears to stand against tyranny, and Hubert, more than anything, would be known for his mind. His coldness, his practicality, his tactical prowess, his unshakeable dedication.

History would not remember what Ferdinand remembered, he feared, but perhaps that was just as well. It would not remember the smaller moments, unexpected and tender and kind, where Hubert brought him little more than tea and gentle conversation to calm his nerves, to encourage him to rest, to commend him for a victory, to celebrate a birthday.

If history was determined to remember Hubert von Vestra for his mind, then Ferdinand was all the luckier to remember him for his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I felt bad for missing Hubert's birthday, so I cobbled this together just in time for Ferdinand's! Hopefully you all enjoyed! C:
> 
> Find me on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart)
> 
> EDIT: HEY!! The absolutely AMAZING [@qschadenfreude](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude) drew some stunning fanart for this fic! If you enjoy looking at gorgeous art, PLEASE check it out [here!!!](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude/status/1259630337178681344?s=20)


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